Extinction wotsq-4

by Лиза Смедман

  Reaching it, Ryld looked up the chimney and counted. The third tunnel above and slightly to the right was the one they'd come through. Touching the magical brooch pinned to his shirt, Ryld stepped out into the chimney and levitated toward it.

  As he drew closer to the tunnel mouth, he heard a faint clink from somewhere inside it. Instantly recognizing the sound of chain mail links clinking against each other, he whipped up the hood of his piwafwi and drew his feet up under its hem. The magic of his cloak enfolded him, throwing his body into shadow. He drifted past the mouth of the tunnel he'd been heading for?to one side of it, so the person he'd just heard wouldn't spot the movement of shadowed gray against shadowed gray?then he halted the equivalent of a dozen paces above the opening. He hung there, carefully controlling his breathing so that not even a whisper of sound escaped his lips. He waited.

  A moment later, a dark face appeared in the tunnel mouth. The strange drow's ebony skin blended with the darkness of the tunnel behind it, as did the black mask that hid his lower face?the symbol of a cleric of Vhaeraun?but his white hair and faintly glowing red eyes stood out in sharp relief. He peered up at where Ryld floated. A chimney was a natural place to expect an ambush.

  Slowly, Ryld slid his finger into the trigger of the crossbow that was strapped to his wrist, but the cleric didn't appear to have spotted him.

  After a quick scan of the chimney above, the cleric turned his attention downward. Pulling a forked bit of bone out of a pocket of his piwafwi, he grasped it with the thumb and forefinger of each hand and held it over the chimney, then spoke the words of a spell. The bone glowed with a soft purple light. A moment later, the light coalesced at the point of the V-shaped bone, then erupted into a sizzling purple spark. The spark began to drift up, then hesitated and drifted slowly and steadily downward. It came o a halt in front of the tunnel Ryld had just climbed out of before it winked out.

  The priest turned and signed to someone in the tunnel behind him, They went this way.

  That seen, Ryld's suspicions were confirmed. The cleric was from House Jaelre and was seeking vengeance for the death of his high priest.

  Ryld watched in silence as the cleric and two well-armed males descended toward the tunnel. The cleric and one of the warriors simply stepped out of the tunnel and drifted magically downward, but the second warrior was forced to climb down the narrow corner of the chimney, his back braced against one wall, hands and feet against the other. Tactically, that was the moment for Ryld to strike?or to flee, since the grunts and scuffing noises the climbing male was making would cover the sound of him entering the tunnel they'd just left.

  Ryld didn't care about Quenthel Baenre. He had accompanied her because he'd been ordered to. Valas could take care of himself in a fight, and Danifae was from another city, and no concern of Ryld's. But Pharaun, even though he was a powerful mage, had just been in a fight with a demon. He would be easy pickings for those three. .

  Flipping back his piwafwi, Ryld shot his crossbow at the cleric. The tiny bolt struck the drow's cheek, plowing a furrow of red across it. As the powerful poison on the barb entered his bloodstream, the cleric sagged in mid-air and was forced to grab at the mouth of one of the tunnels as his levitation magic failed him. Crawling into it, he lay trembling on its stone floor, his lips moving in whispered prayer.

  Ryld touched his brooch and dropped like a stone. He twisted as he fell, simultaneously drawing his short sword and lashing out with a foot as he passed the climbing drow. Braced against the rock as he was, the man could do nothing but close his eyes against the kick Ryld aimed at his face. The blow rocked his head back, smashing it into the wall with a loud crack. An instant later, his unconscious body tumbled after Ryld.

  Pushing off from a wall, Ryld activated the magic of his brooch a second time, checking his fall. The unconscious drow tumbled past, landing with a bone-snapping thud against the floor far below. In the meantime, the levitating warrior had drawn his weapon: a spiked mace.

  Ryld floated down toward him, short sword at the ready. His opponent shouted something?a command word?and the head of his mace burst into bright, magical light. Blinded by the sudden brilliance, Ryld instinctively twisted aside?and heard the mace strike a shattering blow against the wall beside his head. His foot lashed out a second time but missed its target. The warrior was used to fighting in sunlight and had easily avoided the kick.

  Cursing, Ryld summoned a magical darkness that filled the chimney. Neither of them could see, so both had to listen carefully over the sound of the cleric's prayers for the faint shifts of fabric and armor in order to locate his opponent.

  A rush of air warned Ryld of a second mace blow. He twisted violently back, inadvertently falling a little as his levitation magic was interrupted. His sword arm brushed the chimney wall?and an instant later the mace smashed into his elbow, numbing his arm to the fingertips. He tried to swing, but the sword slipped from his fingers.

  The mace smashed in a second time, catching him in the stomach. Ryld's breastplate stopped the spikes from penetrating, ut even so, the force of the blow made him grunt. His opponent was better than Ryld had expected.

  Ryld heard his short sword clatter against the bottom of the chimney, far below. Meanwhile, the cleric's prayer had increased in volume from a whisper to a chant. The cleric must have been using his magic to neutralize the poison, which meant that Ryld would soon have two threats to face. In the narrow chimney, the greatsword strapped to his back was useless. He wouldn't be able to bring Splitter to bear. That meant close fighting. Very close.

  Kicking off from a wall, Ryld launched himself horizontally at the sound of his opponent's breathing. His fingers brushed against a mail tunic, but then he heard the rush of a mace. He twisted, but the weapon connected with his shoulder. He was saved from injury by the dragon-shaped ring on his finger?the ring that marked Ryld as a Master of Melee-Magthere?for its magic made his skin and flesh as tough as that of a dragon. The spikes of the mace bent as they struck, and the weapon glanced off.

  Meanwhile, Ryld clawed his way up his opponent's body, stabbing fingers into pressure points. The man grunted, gasped?then made a loud, choking gurgle as Ryld found his throat and crushed his windpipe. His body went limp, and he too tumbled away.

  They must have been losing elevation during the fight. Ryld emerged from the magical darkness and could see again. And the cleric could see Ryld.

  Shouting an invocation to his god, he tore the mask from his face and hurled it at Ryld. The weapons master twisted and dropped, but the mask followed him with the speed of a swooping bat. It slapped against his face and adhered tightly against his nose and mouth with a wet sucking sound.

  Ryld tried to tear the mask from his face, but it clung to his skin like fungus to a rock. Unable to breathe?a single indrawn breath would draw the contagion the mask carried deep into his lungs?Ryld did the only thing he could. He touched his brooch and dropped. Somehow, he was able to avoid drawing a breath as he caught the ledge where the cleric stood. He held his breath still as he wrenched his head up to the level of the ledge, then swung his legs up in a graceful leap. The mental discipline taught to him by the masters of Melee-Magthere sustained him as he sprang toward the startled cleric, hands poised to strike. Dark sparkles danced before his eyes as he reached the limits of what his body could do without air to sustain it?and he passed those limits, still rushing forward.

  The cleric, red eyes wide with fear, danced backward, avoiding Ryld's charge. Then, nerve broken, he turned and fled, screaming the words of a prayer. A circle of darkness appeared in the air just ahead of him, and he hurled himself into it. Then he was gone.

  An instant later, the mask vanished from Ryld's face. Able to breathe again, Ryld drew a shuddering breath and steadied himself against one wall. For the moment, all was well. The cleric was gone, his magic having spirited him away, and the two warriors of House Jaelre who had accompanied him were dead. Even if the cleric did find Pharaun and the others, Ryld had greatly improved
the odds. In the meantime, the two dead bodies would give his excuse about going back to see who was following them the ring of truth. If the others came that way they would find the dead warriors, would be able to tell from the tracks that there had been a third man, and would assume, when Ryld failed to return, that he had been captured and dragged back to Minauthkeep. Perfect.

  Stepping out into the chimney once more, Ryld levitated down to retrieve the sword he'd dropped. The bodies of the two warriors he'd killed lay in a tangled heap, wedged into the bottom of the chimney.

  Ryld's sword was sandwiched between them.

  Flipping the top corpse over, he reached for his sword?then gasped when he spotted a pair of leather gloves that had spilled out of one of the warrior's torn pockets. He recognized them in an instant by the insignia of House Melarn embossed onto their wide cuffs.

  They were Halisstra's gloves?and the soft leather was stiff with dried blood.

  Fear washed through Ryld like an icy river. Did that mean Halisstra had been killed? If so, the logical thing for Ryld to do would be to return to the others?assuming they weren't demon meat by then?and give up the insane notion of remaining on the surface. It had all been Halisstra's idea, anyway. If she was dead, there was no point in him continuing alone.

  But if she wasn't dead. .

  Ryld shook his head, angry at himself. He didn't owe Halisstra anything, he told himself Going after her was simply insane.

  His fist tightened on the bloody gloves. Stuffing them into a pocket of his piwafwi, he touched his brooch and levitated up the chimney.

  Chapter Five

  Pharaun smirked as Belshazu surged across the boiling pool of water.

  "Demons are so predictable," he said, tsk tsking.

  He raised the cone of glass he'd palmed earlier and spoke a command word. A blast of freezing air burst from the cone, smashing against the demon. Sweat crystallized to sparkling ice on Belshazu's broad chest but cracked and melted away under the heat and motion of the demon's charge. When the cone of cold struck the knee-deep water that surrounded Belshazu the pool instantly froze solid again.

  The demon, finding himself trapped in knee-deep ice, directed the flames that surrounded his hands downward, but the ice did not melt.

  Pharaun's smirk grew as he saw that his plan had worked.

  "Thanks for stirring up the pool," he told the demon. "You mixed Jeggred's blood into it quite nicely. Oh, and here's a bit of trivia for you. Did you know that ice crystals always have six sides? So do crystals of blood, since blood is mostly water. They always form perfect little hexagrams. Millions of them."

  It took a moment for the demon to realize what Pharaun was talking about. When it did, it roared even louder than before, smashing its pincers down on the ice that bound it. While the blows were hard enough to fill the cavern with booming crashes, the ice neither cracked nor splintered. The effort seemed to tax the demon. After just a few blows, it was panting in great, wheezing gasps.

  "Now then," Pharaun continued. "You were going to tell us where the nearest gate to the Abyss can be fou?"

  With a lurch that sent bile rushing into his throat, Pharaun fell upward as gravity suddenly reversed itself. Bound in ice the demon might be, but he still could work his magic. Taken by surprise, disoriented by the sudden gravity shift, Pharaun was unable to counter his fall with levitation magic. He slammed into the ceiling, knocking the breath from his lungs. Danifae and Jeggred crashed into the ceiling an instant later, but Valas had landed on his feet with catlike grace, and Quenthel was able to levitate before striking the rocks.

  The demon lunged up at Pharaun, stretching as far as his icebound feet would allow. One of his pincers clamped onto Pharaun's foot and scissored down, slicing through boot leather and flesh until it grated against bone. Pharaun screamed in agony and scrambled at the rocks, trying to find a handhold as the demon pulled the drow wizard toward himself.

  A moment later, something flashed past him: Valas. Magic lending him unnatural speed, the mercenary had sprinted across the jagged rock of the ceiling with a dagger in either hand to slash at the demon. One of the enchanted blades bit deep into Belshazu's wrist, spitting blue sparks of magical energy as it cleanly severed the bone. The demon howled in wounded rage and flailed with his remaining pincer at his new target, but Valas darted out of range.

  As Pharaun felt the severed pincer fall away from his bloodied foot he levitated away from the ceiling, pushing himself out of range of the demon. Still roaring, with foul-smelling black blood pumping from its severed wrist, Belshazu reversed the spell he had cast a moment before. Danifae and Valas fell back to the cavern floor, the mercenary at once clambering to his feet to menace Belshazu with his dagger. Quenthel and Jeggred floated down after Pharaun.

  Pharaun, favoring his mangled foot, landed on the frozen pond behind the demon. Blood squelched out of his torn boot and spread across the ice, freezing to pink on the intensely cold surface. He fumbled a small metal flask out of a pocket of his piwafwi, uncorked it, and drained the contents. The healing potion took effect almost immediately, numbing his pain like a glass of lace-fungus brandy. In another moment his wounded foot was whole again. He tested his weight on it, and no more than a slight tingling feeling remained. Aside from the tear in his boot, he might never have been wounded.

  From the slope where the others had landed came the low hiss of the vipers in Quenthel's whip. Their mistress's voice was equally impatient.

  "Pharaun! Stop wasting time. Compel the demon to tell us what we need to know."

  Pharaun gave a brief bow in Quenthel's direction, then turned to Belshazu, who had sagged into a crouch on the frozen pond, feet still bound by the ice. The demon was wheezing from his exertions and held his severed wrist tight against his chest. He appeared to be sulking?but by the blaze in his violet eyes Pharaun could see that the demon had not been tamed. Yet.

  Like a sava grand master, Pharaun put his final piece into play.

  "Here's something else I think you should know," he told the demon. "My spell not only froze the pool, but also crystallized the water vapor in the air. That's what you can feel inside your lungs … thousands of tiny hexagrams, sawing away at your flesh. Tell us what we want to know, and I'll release you before they do any further damage. Keep stalling, and you'll die."

  As Belshazu considered that, Pharaun carefully kept his face composed. He had no idea whether the ice crystals inside Belshazu's lungs could actually harm the demon?but it sounded good.

  Belshazu roared in anger, but the roar ended in a wheeze. The demon gave Pharaun a pained look, then grudgingly nodded.

  "I do not know of any gate," he growled.

  Behind Pharaun, one of the vipers in Quenthel's whip gave a soft hiss of frustration.

  "But there is a way to reach the Abyss from this plane," the demon continued. "There is a demon ship that will carry you there. . if you can find it."

  "A demon ship?" Quenthel echoed.

  Belshazu glared at her.

  "Have you heard of the Blood War?" Belshazu asked.

  His voice was heavy with scorn, as if he expected the drow to be ignorant of the doings of his kind.

  "Of course," Quenthel answered. "It is a contest between the Abyss and the Nine Hells?a glorious war that has raged for millennia."

  "Glorious?" Pharaun scoffed. "More like loud, sloppy, and pointless. Neither side remembers what they're fighting about?let alone has the slightest hope of winning."

  "The devils of the Nine Hells will be defeated!" Belshazu bellowed.

  "In due time, I'm sure," Pharaun interjected dryly. "But for the moment, you were telling us about a ship?"

  Still snarling, the demon wrenched his attention away from Pharaun and addressed himself to Quenthel.

  "In ages past, my kind found a fresh way to launch our attacks against the Nine Hells. We built ships of bone bound with strands of spirit stripped from the manes who serve us, and hung with sails of flayed skin. These ships sail between the planes,
blown by the winds of chaos.

  "Centuries ago, one of these ships of chaos set out into the Plane of Shadow, seeking a new route to the Nine Hells. It sailed down the River of Shadows to a place where that river touches upon this plane, and there it was lost. Of its crew of thirteen, only one returned: a groveling mane. It babbled something about the uridezu who captained the ship being overcome and of a terrible storm. We subjected the mane to the fiery lash and the torments of boiling oil, but it was able to give us only one useful piece of information. Just before the ship was lost in the storm, it had visited a city of your world. The city's name meant nothing to us, but perhaps you will know it?Zanhoriloch."

  Unlike Quenthel, who was listening avidly as the demon spoke, Valas seemed not to be listening; his attention was focused on cleaning the sticky black streaks of demon's blood from his dagger. Danifae stood behind them, an openly skeptical look upon her face, toying with a ring. Jeggred, bored, was licking the wound on his wrist.

  "This information is useless," Quenthel said. "How are we to find this ship?assuming it exists? I've never heard of a city by that name."

  "I have," Valas said. As the others turned to the mercenary, he gave a final polish to the kukri, then shoved it back into its sheath. "It's an aboleth city."

  Pharaun rolled his eyes and said, "It just gets better and better, doesn't it? Those fish-folk are the last creatures I want to deal with."

  Danifae suddenly stirred.

  "Mistress," she said, "Pharaun's right. Shouldn't we be?"

  "Silence," Quenthel spat. "I've noted your cowering?how you kept to the rear, like a whimpering male?and am tired of it. If I want your opinion, priestess, I'll ask for it.

  Danifae did as she was told, pursing her lips shut in a tight, angry line.

  "Zanhoriloch isn't far from here," Valas continued. "It's in Lake Thoroot."